


Stories and Whispers

by Emerald Embers (emeraldembers)



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Coming of Age, F/F, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff, Lesbian Character, doomed to be jossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 08:18:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7094056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeraldembers/pseuds/Emerald%20Embers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emily didn’t like books, but she did like stories, and she definitely liked Wyman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories and Whispers

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely speculative and likely to get 90% Jossed when Dishonored 2 comes out, but I figure, why the heck not; I used to have so much fun writing stories based on promo clips for Supernatural back when I was into it, and Emily deserves some happiness. 
> 
> Wyman is a semi-original character, built on snippets and speculation about Dishonored 2. Tweets from Harvey Smith have indicated Wyman is a character who'll be referenced in DH2, and is a courtier and friend of Emily's. Their canon sexuality, gender, and appearance are currently unknown.
> 
> Dedicated to arcanebond, with thanks to Nyx Midnight for betaing.

Emily hated reading, but that was not the same thing as hating stories.

"Reading" had been synonymous with "studying" to Emily for too many years, years spent pouring over dry old books written by dry old men, and she had only learned through practice how to avoid wincing or sneering when handed volumes of science, philosophy, and history as gifts.

Stories were something else. They were half-whispered tales from her mother or father, fantasies to send her off to sleep and adventures to ease her boredom, and no story ever felt exactly the same.

She had heard of Corvo and Jessamine's first meeting from both their lips, and even though the settings, events, and dialogue differed little, the telling was never the same.

Jessamine had seen humour in Corvo that he never saw or spoke of in himself, and Corvo had barely been able to describe Jessamine at all, even before her death made her beauty something painful to consider. Jessamine had always overwhelmed Corvo, and that was a sentiment Emily struggled for years to understand.

It hadn't helped that she looked for understanding in the wrong places.

Emily had never disliked boys, but she had never found them particularly interesting, either. Her mother had never married, and she saw no reason she could not do the same; the boys in books all seemed arrogant or prissy, and the customers she had seen at the Golden Cat and the Hound Pits had done little to persuade her to like men.

Boys could be handsome in a distant sort of way, much like a beautiful painting or a well groomed cat, and they could be strong, brave, even funny enough to make her laugh, but she had never felt lightning strike while looking at a boy.

She had put the idea of lightning strikes aside, deciding they were something that happened to other women, perhaps exclusively fictional women, when sheer chance lead one to hit her.

Emily had been friends with Wyman for years, growing up alongside her and all too glad to be reunited when what had been Jessamine's court reassembled after a careful, thorough culling of its members with Corvo's help. Wyman had been the daughter of a courtier just as Emily was the daughter of an empress, and each had grown into their mothers' roles, and knew how to keep polite conversation in company while saving mischief and gossip for what little time they could find alone.

Emily had shown up late to one of their planned meetings in the palace's gardens, found Wyman sat by herself, immersed in a book, and something about the sight had taken Emily's breath away. She never could place what did it - whether it was the sun reflecting golden off Wyman's curls, the freckled skin of her bared arms, or just the way she had seemed so at peace, as if the world around her had disappeared - but it was as if Wyman _glowed_.

Emily knew of the Daughter of Tyvia, had heard about its content in jokes and in quotations from the play, but something about how the leading ladies fit together had never quite made sense to her.

It made sense now.

"What are you reading?" Emily had asked, Wyman startling at her voice before blushing fiercely and hiding the book.

The Young Prince of Tyvia, Emily would find out later.

Close enough.

* * *

It would be years yet before hints, half-confessions, and all too many agonising moments of wondering if she had overstepped a line or misread a signal lead to their first real kiss; there had been plenty stolen in the guise of roleplaying, and a few light brushes of lips when whisky had made one or the other of them brave, but Emily knew which kiss was the first to truly count.

Emily had left the annual feast celebrating her mother's reign early, overwhelmed by the crowds and the pressure not to mourn in public, and needing privacy. It was more her feet than conscious thought that lead her to Wyman's bedroom in place of her own.

Wyman took her in, comforted her, read to her from a poem she was in the middle of composing, and Emily had cut her off with a simple, impossible question.

"Of course," was the answer, and Wyman set down her papers with hands that should have shook, but didn't. "I think I always have."

Emily grabbed her, kissed her, and whispered, "I love you too."

And whispered it again, and kissed her again, and again, and again, kissing "I love you" into Wyman's neck, shoulder, chest, and not stopping until long after they were both half-naked and the words became soft and wet secrets between Wyman's thighs.

* * *

Emily hated reading but loved to be read to, if it was by the right person.

This book was dull, but Emily was more preoccupied with listening to Wyman's voice, watching her half-lidded eyes, the form of her lips around each consonant and vowel.

Sex left Emily pleasantly drowsy and Wyman pleasantly not, and having Wyman read her to sleep afterwards was a luxury she had enjoyed for some months now. Not every night they spent together, but often enough that it felt like tradition, and a tradition Emily was happy to keep.

Emily stroked over the swell of Wyman's stomach, loving her warmth, loving how the bed still smelled like sex, and wishing hygiene did not demand the changing of bedlinen. When work or family commitments meant Wyman leaving the palace, Emily often held onto the sheets despite the maids' protests, wanting to keep the silvery trails left by hands wiped clean, the scent of heated nights trapped in cloth. She had lived amidst real filth enough times that it was a struggle to think of anything Wyman had touched as soiled.

An idle thought made Emily stiffen, digging in her fingers without meaning to, and Wyman quickly bookmarked her page before setting the book aside and running her fingers through Emily's hair. "What is it?"

Emily pursed her lips, reluctant to risk spoiling the moment, but Wyman's eyes were as firm as they were gentle. "We can't be this happy forever," Emily said. She wasn't her mother, she had trained with all manner of weapons under Corvo's watch and looked for deception in every corner, but she wasn't immortal either. Corvo, Wyman, herself - all mortal.

Wyman looked pensive at first, then nodded. "But you're happy right now, aren't you?"

"Yes -"

"Then that's what matters."

Emily wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe they would see many more moments like this; she wanted to believe that if Corvo had learned to smile again, then even if the worst were to happen, she would smile again too someday.

Emily shifted so she could rest her head on Wyman's chest and listen to the soft thudding of her heart.

It was a sound that helped set her own one at peace.


End file.
